


Like Any Other Day

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Brunch, Fluff, John loving him for it, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when John thought Sherlock couldn't get any more strange...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Any Other Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thescienceofobsession (ScienceofObsession)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/gifts).



"That’s… it’s tea." John looked nonplussed.

"Ye-es," Sherlock replied in a voice that seemed to be his version of patience, "of course it’s tea."

"But." John scrunched his forehead up and scratched the side of his stubbled cheek. "But… you’re bringing it to me. In bed. And it’s hot. _And_ it’s the way I take it.” He sat up in alarm and made to put a palm on Sherlock’s forehead. “Are you feeling okay?”

Sherlock exhaled noisily.

"I’m perfectly fine, John, just take the tea and drink it! For god’s _sake_."

John took the mug from Sherlock’s hand and sniffed it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s _not_ poisoned.”

"One can never be too sure." The tea didn’t taste poisoned. It was hot and lovely and had just the right amount of milk, and wasn’t Sherlock going to be sorry he’d let on he knew how to make the perfect cuppa. "What’s all this about, then?"

Sherlock bristled, flapping a hand behind him as he left the bedroom. “Never mind, John. Get dressed, quickly. We’ll be late!”

*

John descended the stairs from his bedroom to find Sherlock in the sitting room, pacing with almost manic intensity.

"Ah! You’re dressed." Sherlock surveyed John’s attire. "Excellent."

"Sherlock, this is a new jumper," John said pointedly.

"So it is."

"A new jumper I didn’t buy."

"Wonderful, John! Your deductions are really coming along!"

"Sherlock." John smoothed his hands down his front over the beautiful blue cashmere, enjoying the soft, silky caress of expensive fabric beneath his fingers. It was the sort of thing he’d never buy himself: too pricey, too fussy, too dry-clean-only, but just the exact shade of blue to turn his eyes a perfect cerulean in the proper light. "Did you put this jumper in my wardrobe? At the top of the pile? Where I couldn’t find any other jumper unless I moved it?"

"I might have," Sherlock said distractedly, swiping at his phone as he reached for his Belstaff. "We should go, though. We have reservations!"

"Reservations."

Sherlock thrust John’s coat at him as he swirled around in a wave of dark wool and replied, “The Delaunay!”

*

"Shall we go on to the cinema?"

"Cinema?" John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock was on something more than four cups of strong black tea (at very posh brunch with Harry, for which Sherlock also inexplicably footed the bill) and nicotine patches. "You want to go to the cinema?"

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s only that there’s a Bond film festival at the Prince Charles, and I thought you might like to go.”

John stopped short in the middle of the pavement. He wanted to be careful in case his jaw decided to land someplace in front of his feet.

Sherlock rounded on him with a quirked eyebrow. “Problem?”

"I absolutely refuse to believe you want to go to the cinema to watch a Bond film festival with me. It’s just not possible."

Sherlock let out with the most exasperated, surely-you-can’t-be-this-simple sort of sigh. “I’d not have believed it either, but, demonstrably, I do. Alas; shall we?”

More dumbstruck than convinced, John followed, trying to work out what sort of disorder would cause an otherwise abrupt, blunt, and nearly emotionless man to overnight become a kind, thoughtful, and absurdly generous flatmate.

*

"Shall I play you something?"

They’d returned from the rest of their day and evening, including the film festival (during which Sherlock had admirably restricted his behaviour to whispering his indignant objections directly into John’s ear—an action that sparked such a flutter in John’s stomach he couldn’t dwell on it lest he embarrass himself), and dinner at Angelo’s (at which Sherlock asked thoughtful questions about John’s work at the surgery and refilled John’s wine glass with an almost alarming attentiveness), and after bringing John yet another mystifyingly thoughtful beverage (this one a fine eighteen year Scotch), Sherlock stood before John’s armchair, violin and bow poised and ready.

John sipped his Scotch deeply. “This is marvellous.”

Sherlock positively beamed.

"But." John placed his glass down on the end table, stood, and took the instrument from Sherlock’s hands, setting it down carefully on Sherlock’s chair. "I think it’s time you told me what this is all about."

Sherlock bunched his eyebrows together until an endearing little crease disturbed the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you know?”

"No, actually," John huffed a laugh. "As lovely as it’s been, I’ve no idea what I’ve done to deserve all this."

"But it’s your birthday!" Sherlock finally exploded, the words gushing from his mouth as though a dam had burst, "How could you not realise? I brought you tea in bed, I bought you the first respectable jumper I’ve seen on you in all the time I’ve known you, I took you and your insufferable sister to brunch, I sat through _five and a half hours of James Bond_ , what more could you _possibly_ require to know that yes, today, _on your birthday_ , John Hamish Watson, I would like to express to you _every last one of my highest regards_?” Sherlock’s face was pink, eyes almost shut, hands clenched white-knuckled by his sides.

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered.

"Don’t." Sherlock shut his eyes the rest of the way.

John moved forward, took each fisted hand with one of his own, pulled Sherlock’s arms around him and pressed his face to Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock stayed absolutely still.

John moved his face a bit more, nuzzling a little, finally lifting his chin to meet Sherlock’s downturned mouth and kiss it softly, just a brush of his lips on Sherlock’s lips, just a tiny pull on that full bottom lip between his own.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Thank you," John said.

"I. Well, er. That is—" Sherlock tried to speak, but was cut off by John’s mouth again, this time surer, sweeter, more demanding. John helped himself to the smooth, hot slide of lips and tongue, and felt Sherlock unclench his fists, the better to pull John closer to him.

After a spell, John pulled back, unable to keep a rather stupid grin off his face. “Just one thing, though.”

"Yes?" Sherlock looked delicious, flushed pink high on his cheeks and red all over his mouth, and his voice was not much more than a deep, breathy sort of moan.

"My birthday’s actually tomorrow."

"What? I was so sure of it… it’s the seventh, I know it is, your birthday is on _the seventh._ ”

"Sure is," John replied cheerfully. "Today’s the sixth."

Sherlock paused, apparently reviewing a set of mental calculations, then threw his head back and groaned. “Bloody, _buggering_ hell, you mean I’ve got to do all this over again _tomorrow_?”

John grinned, pushed a hand into Sherlock’s hair and pulled Sherlock’s mouth back down over his own as he whispered against his lips, “Not if you can find another way to keep me happy all day.”

**Author's Note:**

> For **thescienceofobsession** , on the momentous occasion of her birth! (Idea came from [this post](http://thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com/post/91050913102/so-apparently-john-watsons-birthday-is-today-and).) Though I've heard many thoughts on when John Watson's canonical birthday is, I was more than pleased to use this one to write something for your birthday, my darling. You are one of my favorite humans ever, and never change! <3 xx
> 
> Shout-out to Leslie for helping clean this up for me, and brainstorming titles. She's always nudging me towards titles.


End file.
